Nuclear Families
by slydogslie
Summary: If the only truth is to be found in secrets and with a bloodline full of vipers, how messed up can the Gilbert family be? Featuring the usual suspects, plus. AU, AH, Non-Con. Moments of levity. Rated M for a Reason. Foul language. Many Triggers.
1. Bad Boy Blues, September 2009

**AN: **I do not own these characters, merely borrow.

* * *

**Chapter One: Bad Boy Blues, September 2009**

Something about the way the light hit her pillow made Elena anxious. She set her book down on the bed and watched as the shadows of tree limbs sliced into the light crosshatching nonsense into her bedroom. Fall had come early and with brutality. The September wind prematurely shook the turning leaves off of the maple trees around her house. She couldn't help but think of the leaves' quick turning as a promise she didn't want kept.

Elena stood up from her bed and pulled on a pair of plaid wellies over her thin jeans. She shrugged off a thick gray sweatshirt from her shoulders over a cap-sleeved navy shirt. She pulled on a hooded raincoat from her closet. Elena stuffed her id and bankcard into its inner pocket, and made her way down stairs.

When she entered the living room, it was supernaturally quiet. Her cousin sat with gaming headphones on in front of a silent screen. She watched as zombies swarmed the screen, turning pale as Jeremy's character lit a Molotov threw it into the fray. Green pixel goo flew everywhere.

"Tank!" Jeremy yelled. "There's a Tank on your twenty WolfBlood32.! I don't have any more Mollies, guys. I just splattered a Boomer. There's a Witch in the house on the left. Don't go in there."

Elena cocked her head and tried to understand. There were no military vehicles in this game, or witches, she thought. Maybe she would ask Jeremy to teach her how to play. The screen exploded with gunfire and the room filled with Jeremy's laughter. Gore went everywhere.

_Maybe not,_ Elena thought.

"Jeremy, get your ass in the dining room right now!" Elena heard her Aunt Jenna holler from the kitchen and stomp into the dining room. In the Gilbert/Fell household, the dining room was less for eating dinner and more for homework and reprimands. It's full oak china cabinet went untouched, and the oak table supported more stacks of paper than food. "Jeremy Fell!"

Elena stifled a giggle with her hand. Her cousin was always in trouble. She snuck up behind him and flicked his neck.

"Ow, damn Elena, what?" Jeremy snapped, pausing the game and glaring at his cousin. Elena smiled and he softened as she bent over him and kissed the top of his head.

"Your mom. Dining room. What did you do Jer-bear?" Elena poked his arm.

Jeremy went pale. "Shit. They caught me. Come with me, Elli-bean. She won't kill me with witnesses. And…she loves you. You can save my ass." The controller tumbled from his hands as he stood.

"Does this have anything to do with the fountain at school pressurizing with lotion soap and fracturing down the middle?" Elena frowned. She hated when Jeremy got in trouble. He was like a little brother.

"Freshman Prank Day, Elena. Come on, you know that. It just…it didn't just fracture. A piece of marble sort of exploded and cracked Coach Lockwood's windshield."

"How does that even obey the laws of physics?" Elena laughed then quickly frowned, "Coach Lockwood? Oh boy. I'll come with you, but I don't think anything is going to save you now. I warned you about Freshman Prank Day, Jer. You have got to keep your head down. This is high school, not middle school. Just because Principal Fell is your aunt doesn't mean she won't make your life miserable too." Elena laced her fingers into his and dragged him into the dining room.

"I know," Jeremy whispered, "she hates mom."

When they entered the dark green dining room, Jenna's hands were in her hair. Her thin shoulders bunched in, defeated. Elena thought Jenna looked more like a student overwhelmed by studying than an angry mother. Jeremy tensed and stood slightly behind his cousin, less fooled. Jenna didn't look up at them when she spoke.

"I don't know what to do with you. Seriously, buddy. I have no clue. It hasn't even been a full month of school."

Elena squeezed Jeremy's hand as he muttered his reply. "Mom. I'm sorry."

Elena watched Jeremy stare through the glass of the china cabinet, eyeing the small, porcelain dinnerware as though they were life boats and he a man drowning at sea. She imagined the rolling white waves cracking against the shell of the boats. She held on to her cousin's hand, his floatation vest. Jeremy's smile was small, reassurance quickly fleeting.

Elena turned to look at Jenna, her aunt's face contorting between anger and defeat. At some point her aunt had stretched out her forearms. Jenna's fingers dug into the wood of the table as she leaned over them, her elbows in rigid right angles.

"No, Jeremy. You're not. You are not sorry. I can't think of anyone _less_ remorseful. You're just bummed you got caught and have to face the consequences." Jenna looked up and her glare softened when she saw Elena. "Elena."

Elena felt Jeremy relax. She had the effect he was going for—at this derailment, Jenna would be easier, more open to humor. He took a chance.

"You're right, I don't think I am sorry about the prank, mom." Jeremy twitched into a grin. "You should have seen it. It was amazing!" His mother's refocused glare made him backtrack. "I am sorry about Coach Lockwood's car. I didn't think it would break the fountain or damage anyone's car."

Jenna pulled her mouth into a line. Her son was the spitting image of his father, Logan. A better version of Logan, one that did not lie and use the Marines as an excuse to get away from his wife and child. She fumed. She felt the anger hit the roots of her hair. She felt the anger in her fingertips.

"Coach Lockwood has banned you from sports." Jenna waved her hand, as if that were a logical response to her son's honesty.

Elena gasped, "Oh Jer! You can't go out for baseball now. You're such a great pitcher."

Her aunt and cousin looked at her in surprise. It had been approximately two years since Jeremy bothered to touch a baseball. But, this is how these altercations went: anger, derailment, humor and then abstraction. Jeremy's mouth twitched in amusement. "Bean, I wasn't going to try out anyway."

Jenna snapped her attention back to her son. "Excuse me?"

After forty more minutes of Jenna's wrath, Jeremy and Elena were dismissed. Elena pulled her cousin into the wet day. The sun's placement in the sky had softened the light. Elena felt herself relax, Jenna's tirades were mostly harmless, but the anger blasted their way this time steam rolled her. The gentle blueness of Fall settled comfortably around her shoulders. She began to swing her arm, forcing Jeremy's trapped hand to swing with it.

"Jesus, Bean. What are you, five?" Jeremy withdrew his hand and sulked as they walked down the sidewalk. He slowed his pace to a half-step behind her. "God, you are embarrassing."

"I guess I should be happy that you're ok enough to be seen with your dorky cousin outside the house." Elena did a twirl on the concrete, all foreboding behind her. Perhaps she sensed the anger and the fight. Everything would be all right now. "It's ok, Jer. We both know you're too cool for me."

"I told you I would go to the Grill, ok?" Jeremy grumbled, "I could be killing the undead with my gunners right now instead. Besides, you know you'll just run into one of your friends there. I don't know why you need me."

"I don't need you, you jerk. I just want you around. At any rate, I'm pretty sure you like it when I bump into Bonnie," Elena teased. What Jeremy didn't know and Elena could guess at, is that Jenna was at present resetting the password to their wifi. Jeremy's zombie-killing days were stunted until further notice.

"But not Caroline or Stefan." Jeremy snapped, "and Matt is always mooning at Bonnie anyway."

Elena opened the door to the Grill and said nothing. Jeremy was right. Matt did moon over girls. It was unfortunate for him that Elena had it on authority that Bonnie had no interest in Matt. Bonnie had no interest in men at all, generally speaking.

* * *

Miranda Gilbert opened the back door of her home and stepped quietly into the kitchen. She had heard her sister fighting with the kids and waited until they left the house. Latching the door behind her, Miranda set her purse on the table and pulled two glasses from a cupboard and a bottle of wine before joining her sister in the dining room.

Miranda watched her sister grip the dirty blonde hair at her scalp. She watched Jenna tug and then run her fingers through her hair, letting the loose strands slip away. Miranda poured the wine halfway in her glass and to the brim in her little sister's. Whatever had Jenna scowling and tugging this way would rival her own day, she knew.

"Jenna, what's the heartache?" Miranda asked playfully, ignoring the throbbing of her temples.

"Thanks," Jenna said, sipping from her filled glass before dropping her gaze down at the paper in front of her. "I reset our wifi password, by the way. Don't you dare give it to my degenerate son."

"Oh sister. What happened?"

"Meredith fucking Fell. She threatened to expel him, Miranda." Jenna moaned. She slammed her hand on the table. "Her fucking brother left _us,_ not the other way around. Why does she always forget that? Jeremy's his son and her nephew. It's like a goddamn punishment just to be related to her uptight ass."

Miranda sipped her wine. She loved her nephew, but knew him well. "What did he do?"

"Nothing! He just goofed around with a bunch of other kids and she wants to expel him over…over what, damage to property? I bet you the other kids aren't getting it this bad. She fucking said, and I quote, Miranda, 'I believe Jeremy to be the ringleader of these activities. He has time and again proven to be an instigator and overall disciplinary case, possibly to an unstable home environment.' Can you believe that?"

Miranda ran a finger around the edge of her glass. "That is a strong allegation for it only being the first month of school. Maybe she's referring to his records from middle school? Jeremy does like his mischief."

"She likes to make us suffer and remind me I'm a terrible mother. She's a vindictive hypocrite. That bitch and I did way worse in high school." Jenna snapped.

"I remember," Miranda laughed. "I was the one who caught you sneaking back into your room."

"Pretty regularly, if I recall." Jenna giggled into her drink before looking sadly at her sister. "Why is it that we collect the worst in-laws?" Her face paled and she looked down at the table. "I'm sorry. How was work?"

Miranda took a deep breath, ignoring Jenna's misstep. "Today was more difficult than others. I had to handle more calls at the center than usual because Tatia called in. Jenna, These women have it so hard. It's difficult to explain that you know what they're feeling without giving in and becoming unprofessional. We can't really get too personal. I don't know how I thought working for a Rape Crisis Center would be a good fit for me."

Jenna held her sister's hand. "Because, Miranda. You do understand."


	2. Bad Boy Blues, September 1991

**A/N: Sexual Violence. Triggers, triggers, triggers.**

Please understand that I'm writing about sexual violence in the most accurate, period-sensitive way I can. The following attitudes of the characters are in no way representative of my version of reality, but this is how I envision the makings of a victim-abuser relationship. It wasn't until the last decade that people even _began_ to discuss sexual abuse without intimating that it was the victim's fault or responsibility to prevent it. If it makes you sick or uncomfortable, that's sort of the point.

I do not own these characters, merely borrow.

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**Chapter 2: Bad Boy Blues, September 1991.**

Miranda watched the clock, regretful. She regretted driving separately from Grayson, who, being a surgeon, had a good but frustrating excuse for always being late. The wedding ceremony was over, Jules and Mason had exchanged their vows and now shared their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood.

Being a Lockwood affair, they pulled out all of the stops. The Founder's Mansion was intricately decorated, even the wall paper painstakingly restored with money from the Founder's trust donated by Mason's brother, Mayor Lockwood. Period-sensitive candelabras had been installed. Their light flickered and cast a golden, romantic glow on everyone in the room.

Except for Grayson, Miranda's absentee husband. She regretted the argument the night before for the fifth time. She knew her husband wasn't ready for children, but married for three years, Miranda wondered if he ever would be. He had settled into his position as Head Surgeon in Virginia's most prestigious hospital. They even revamped her dream house on Maple Street. Miranda patiently waited for him to be ready. She volunteered at the Founder's Circle and suffered Carol Lockwood to fill her time.

Carol Lockwood, whose four-month baby-bump drove Miranda to distraction.

Miranda concentrated on the make-up after their fight, when Grayson kissed her tears and fingertips and told her she was the sun around which he revolved. Miranda remembered the way he slipped inside of her, agreeing to let chance play their hand. It was the best night of her life.

But now her teeth worried at her cheek and she worked on her countless glass of champagne on top of countless vodka tonics. She didn't know why she was acting so recklessly, given her husband's gift the night before, but she knew the chances of becoming impregnated from that one time were slim. She was flush with the promise of more chances. She was angry that her husband was not there. She was also quite inebriated.

After polishing off her glass, Miranda stood, swaying slightly. She looked around to spot her sister. Her eyes blurrily found Jenna dancing on the floor with Logan Fell. Miranda grimaced. She knew Jenna's feelings were one-sided, but unstoppable. She walked out of the ballroom and found the Ladies, inside she splashed a touch of water on her neck. A knock on the door made her jump.

"Mandy?" John Gilbert stuck his head in.

Miranda chuckled. Only John was allowed to call her Mandy. He often broke into Manilow when drunk, and it was his favorite Manilow song. She looked sweetly at her husband's older brother.

"You look a little worse for wear. Where's Grayson?" He asked, shifting his body into the bathroom and leaning against the door. "Did my stupid brother stand up the most beautiful woman here?"

Miranda laughed at his harmless flirting, "Where's Izzie?"

"Isobel is on bed rest." John replied coldly. "Her blood pressure was a little high this doctor's visit."

Miranda brooded. "Right, three months?" _I swear to Christ, everyone is fucking pregnant._

John watched her eyes darken with sadness. He felt her longing from where he stood. It made him want to throttle Grayson for speaking to her first, all of those years ago. It made him want to barricade the bathroom door and comfort her. It made him hard, her sadness. John stared at her sad smile and imagined prying her mouth open, his hands pulling her hair, as he fucked it_. My brother is a lucky shit bastard._

Miranda suddenly giggled, sadness forgotten. "I think I am worse for wear. I need to call a cab." She pawed sloppily through her purse for fifteen cents. "There's a payphone?"

John watched her eyebrows crease as she concentrated on the contents of her purse. He thought of reminding her that as a Founding Member, she had authorization to use the Mansion's home lines. He doubted she could manage the old fashioned rotary in her state. An idea formed in his mind, making the sweat collect at his temples.

"I'll take you."

* * *

The car ride was quiet, Miranda flipped in between playful and distant in a way that John was not accustomed. He was used to a more flowery Miranda, mirthful and blooming under the laughter of others. John had never seen Miranda drunk before, being such a lightweight she rarely indulged. He loosened his grip on the wheel and shut off the engine in front of the house on Maple Street. The driveway was empty. John stared at the dark house. He should walk her in, at least.

John exited the car and pulled a still swaying Miranda out into the night air. She fell into his arms and almost cost them their balance. John smiled and inhaled her hair. He dropped an arm to her waist and led her to the door as she fumbled, looking for her keys.

"I can't find them," Miranda frowned.

"It's a good thing I house-sat for you guys when you went to Paris, right?" John said and slid his hand lower onto her hip, his forearm resting on the crest of her bottom.

Miranda's features scrunched in confusion. She was sure that they had taken the key back from him and given it to Jenna. Miranda vaguely remembered plants dying. She giggled uncontrollably. Sometimes memory made no sense.

"Thank you for my ride, John." Miranda said as they stepped over the threshold. "I can make my way up…I'll rest on the couch."

John smirked as he released her from his hold and watched her totter sideways to the living room. He clicked the front door shut behind him. Miranda managed to drop her purse on the floor and flop stomach-wise on the couch. As adults, John never saw her so indecorous. It reminded him of the girl that sat upside down on his parent's couch while studying with Grayson. He saw her knee-length dress stretched just at her thighs, like an invitation. He imagined raising the hem higher. He wanted her to be naked under that dress. He felt himself harden again when he realized that he could make it happen, make her bloom underneath his weight. There was no one home. No Grayson around for miles. He turned and locked the front door.

"Mandy. Mandy girl," John sing-songed over her prone form.

"Mmmfph." Miranda grumbled into the couch cushion. She waved to him a dismissal, groaning internally at the thought of standing up again.

John hesitated at the dismissal. He sat down on the stairs and looked into the dark living room. He let the minutes crumble by like stale bread. He burned with his thoughts. He should be terrified of Grayson walking in on the two of them. Instead, thinking of shattering successful and happy Grayson with the sight of Miranda's infidelity jump-started his erection. _I could crush him. I could ruin him. _

On the couch, Miranda slipped into an almost sleep. The pressure on her eyelids was relentless and when she closed them it was bliss. Her body relaxed into the couch, her arms wrapped around her head and supported her right cheek. Miranda's body felt as though it were still softly swaying, a boat on water. She didn't notice John walk up behind her. She barely registered her body moving backward, slightly over the arm of the couch or John's legs pressing against her stocking clad calves. She didn't feel her dress rise higher.

John gasped when he noticed the stockings ended at her thighs. _Dirty girl._ He wished for garter belts, but found none. His erection throbbed as his hands held the hem of her dress. He was so close to her now. He lifted them hem higher. He just needed to see. He would look at her backside, her legs. He could file it away for later. He could imagine the sound of his testicles slapping against her later. He could imagine stretching her anus with his fingers as he thrust inside her.

He decided it was time to look. Pulling the dress above Miranda's waist, John grit his teeth. Her underwear was glorious. Never had he been driven so mad by pink silk. He wanted to rub himself against it. He wanted to rub until completion and empty on her thighs. He couldn't stop his hands from reaching to her skin.

Miranda first felt a chill rise from her backside and a slip of smooth fabric, rocking the waves of her vessel. When she felt hands, she sighed. _Grayson_. Miranda felt what she thought were her husband's hands slide around her hips, the hem of her underwear and smiled. When the hands broke expectation, she tensed. Instead of encircling her waist and bringing her to standing, the hands moved the dress up even higher. Instead of helping her right herself and stumble upstairs, they pinned her arms with the tight fabric. Miranda, startled, began to struggle.

John grimaced against the pleasure of her struggle until her legs started to kick. He managed to undo his dress pants, slide his and her underwear down to their knees and to keep her dress pinning her arms as he held down her shoulders. Miranda's legs kicked with a life all their own and John felt her chest build as she readied to scream.

Miranda felt her head jerk back and then forward from the fist in her hair. The fibers of the couch made her choke with panic. Her eyes were forced shut by the pressure. Her whimpers sounded strangled and foreign. She used her elbows to try to tear at the fabric, to push her palms into the springs of the couch. She could not attain enough leverage and the pressure in her eyes and chest was too much. As the man behind her entered her, she screamed until she blacked out.

As John maneuvered inside of Miranda, the phone began to ring. Frazzled by the sound, he prayed the answering machine picked up quickly. John picked up his pace, the friction moistening Miranda's insides to lessen the damage. He frowned as the ringing persisted.

_Is this it?_ He thought. _Is this the bullshit I've been fantasizing about? _John had to admit, his fantasies were better. In them, Miranda moaned and worked him like a porn star.

John shifted her rear higher and pushed harder. His thought of fantasy Miranda, the things she let him do to her. He looked at the slick connection of their bodies as he exited and entered. He listened to the beeping sound of the answering machine beginning to record. John sucked on the lengths of his index and middle fingers. He smiled as he traced them down the arch of her spine past her tailbone. In his mind, Miranda came as he plunged them into her anus.

Despite his pleasure, it was not quite what John wanted. Awake, Miranda could have seen the error in her choices, could have begged him to defile her again and again. Conversely, Miranda's incapacitation afforded John the ability to do as he pleased. He considered entering and filling the space his fingers now occupied. As he imagined this option and porn Miranda's response, John felt his control slip. He emptied inside her to the sound of Sheriff Forbes' voice.


	3. Secrets, October 2009

******AN:** I do not own these characters, merely borrow.

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**Chapter 3: Secrets, October 2009**

"You treat her better than you do us!" Isobel yelled, "You don't understand what it's like, being around them. Being around _you_ with _her_. Knowing that she could be your child. Knowing that you betrayed me, betrayed Grayson. Betrayed everyone. For what? Miranda never loved you, wanted you. _I did._ God knows why. Now all I have is Katherine to show for it. You just don't fucking get it."

"No. I don't understand you, Isobel, because you say the stupidest, most incomprehensible shit that anyone has ever had to suffer through." John placed the empty tumbler down on the kitchen island. Mentioning Miranda had been a mistake. His arms crossed in defiance, his fingers grabbed at the sleeves of his dress shirt. He wanted to hit his wife. He wanted to slap her face, over and over, until Isobel passed out. He didn't.

"Admit it, John! Admit it! I just want to hear the truth!" Isobel sobbed, her anger spilled out of the kitchen and to the stairs, where Katherine listened with bated breath.

"Yes. Yes, Isobel, Yes. Of course I did! I fucked Miranda. All night. She came and came. The best fuck of my life." John leaned in as Isobel blanched against his words. John was not finished, not remotely, and he went for the kill, "I married you because you were a decent lay and you tricked me into thinking you were pregnant. That's all. I should have backed out when I discovered that you weren't. And yes, Isobel, Elena is my _rightful_ daughter. It has nothing to do with Miranda. How could I not love Elena more than Grayson's and your child?" John laughed, covering his partial lie. His cruel voice cut through to Katherine's spine.

Katherine heard enough. She tiptoed up the stairs into her room and silently locked her bedroom door. She loved secrets and had always known her family had them. It all made sense: doting Uncle John. Poor excuse of a father John. Aunt Jenna's hostility and Aunt Miranda's coolness toward him and her mother. The proximity of Elena's and her birthdays. Katherine sneered, _Cousin Elena_.

She did not hear her parents as the fight raged on: "Well, the joke's on you, then. I never slept with your brother. Katherine is _your_ daughter, you fucking bastard." Isobel snarled.

John's arms dropped from their folded position. The hardness of his eyes faltered. "What? What? Why didn't you tell me sooner, Izzie?" The old familiarity dropped like a stone into an empty well.

"Fuck you, that's why." Isobel became calm, steadying herself on the ledge of the counter, regaining her ground. "Well," she smoothed her skirt, "now you can make up for lost time. She's all yours. I'll be gone by the morning."

Upstairs, Katherine sat on her bed, arms folded. Her contemplation broke into a grin. She could not deny herself the sudden happiness: Miss Perfect's life was far from. She thought about the way her mother Isobel spoke about Grayson. The wistful way Isobel twirled an end of her hair as she looked out the window. The way John tensed whenever his name was spoken. Grayson and Isobel were in love, surely. Katherine's birthday falling three months before Elena's—wasn't that proof? She thought of the hiss in her Aunt Miranda's voice when she spoke to her father—no, to her uncle. Uncle John. She thought of how Miranda spoke to him, without love or kindness. Katherine came first. Elena after.

Katherine's grin broke into manic laughter. Elena was a response to Isobel's pregnancy! Here she was, Katherine, the heroic Grayson's daughter, not detached John's. Elena was a bastard product of a tryst. The logic was sound and she was briefly satisfied.

_Seventeen years is too long time to keep such a big family secret_, Katherine thought, as she rubbed her hands together, plans blossoming in her mind. _And oh, what a secret!_

The only thing Katherine Pierce-Gilbert loved more than discovering new secrets was to expose them.

* * *

"Salvatore boys," Katherine spoke with sweetness as she walked up the driveway and over to the brothers. Stefan turned his head quickly from the hood of his brother's Camaro, his surprised smile falling to an unreadable line. Stefan slipped off the hood of the car and stuck his hands in his jeans. He looked over at his brother and then to Katherine.

Damon, if he heard her, made no implication. He leaned his head back onto the newly cleaned windshield of his Camaro, taking a pull on the open bottle of Magic Hat in his hand.

"Just the two Sicilians I wanted to see." Katherine sidled up to the driver's side of the car and leaned playfully over the side view mirror. She shimmied her breasts on the top of the small mirror and locked eyes with the younger Salvatore. _Look at them Stefan,_ her mind commanded, _they're impossible to ignore, to touch. They'd bounce above you, if you let them. I promise I would be a good time._

"Katherine." Stefan said in the middle of a powerful exhale. He shifted his weight as though his shoes had shrunk in size. He looked at his brother expectantly, "Damon. Hey. Katherine is here."

Katherine frowned as she watched Stefan look everywhere else but her body, frustrated that her standby tricks did not work. She looked at the hard edges of Stefan's jaw, the ghost of stubble, the profile of his eye. She stood back up straight, tensed.

_He never looks at me_, she thought,_ not even my eyes._ Katherine clenched her fist and then released. A small smile formed. She walked up to Stefan, determined. She placed her left hand on his chest, and he looked at her startled. _Like a rabbit_, she thought, sadly, and moved her right hand to hook her figures into his left jean pocket. She knew if he let her, if she moved just right, she would touch him. _I could claim him then_, she thought.

Stefan's panic released him long enough to clear his throat and step backwards. He looked over to his prone brother for help that was not going to come. As Katherine moved forward again to reclaim her position, undeterred by his polite disentanglement, Stefan turned and quickly walked into the house.

Damon took another sip of Magic Hat and said nothing.

Katherine scowled at Stefan's departure, shook herself back into her task. She climbed back on the hood of the car, uncrossed Damon's knees and straddled them, forcing herself into Damon's line of sight. When she caught his eyes, she smirked and began to scoot forward, riding her short skirt up to her thighs. She took the bottle from his hands and moved gently onto his lap. She remembered what he liked, fucking on the hood of his car; she needed to distract him, to turn him on. She knew sex was Damon Salvatore's truest vice and to get him on her side she slid back and forth on his lap, her tongue lapping a drop of beer from the edge of the bottle.

Underneath him, Damon grunted in annoyance. Katherine noticed that he did not touch her, did not grab by her hips or grind back, but also that he did not push her off of him. Katherine smiled. The older Salvatore brother was weak.

"Why does your brother have to be like that, Damon?" Katherine pouted, deciding to push her luck. The downturn pulled her lips outward absurdly. She intensified the friction of her grinding. She wanted him to emote. To get angry. To get turned on. To have his sharp wit confused, just enough. She didn't want to kiss or fuck, just excite and anger him, just enough.

"Because you're not Elena, Queen Bee." Damon snapped, "Now stop acting like a stripper and tell me what you want."

Katherine bristled at the mention of her cousin's name and stopped moving. Katherine took a long pull and emptied the bottle before throwing it into the trees. Their eyes met and fought with the force of two hurricanes. He was the first to look away. Smirking, Katherine smoothed her voice, "I seem to remember you enjoying my company much more last year, Damon darling."

"You were more tolerable then. Barely." He said. "Now. What. Do. You. Want?"

Katherine's eyes lit up with ferocity, "I have a secret, ex lover, and you are going to help me rock this town's world with it."

"And if I don't? If I don't care enough about your secret, or you, to help?" He asked.

"Oh, You'll help. You'll care." Katherine leaned into his body, hovered over his ear and whispered, "Because, Damon my soldier bee, I have more than one secret and the one that's yours I've still kept."

* * *

"Oh." Elena said. She looked at her fingers. She looked back into Stefan Salvatore's eyes, then down to her hands again. At some point in their increasingly awkward conversation, she had peeled a strand of hair into split threads. She felt—she wasn't sure. Relieved? Nervous? Happy? Grateful?

Stefan face strained with emotion, a slowly breaking dam. His body stiffened uncomfortably on the couch, wondering if he should move. The weight of his secret filled the air like incense; he was about to find out how his best friend reacted to its smell.

"Well. Thank you…thank you for telling me, I mean, I'm honored." Elena pressed Stefan's raising shoulders back to his previous position, cradled into her lap. "I just mean," her words stumbled, "I'm glad that you trusted me this much. God, Stefan. How did we not know?"

Stefan snorted in displeasure, frowned. "Is it supposed to be obvious? Like a mark or disease?"

"No! No I just mean. This shouldn't be so awkward. I hate that we live in a world where you have to come out—to anybody." Elena relaxed back into the couch cushions, but her hands remained animated. "I want to live in a world where who you love and how you love doesn't matter. It…it hurts that you have to come out to me—or anyone—at all. Does that make sense?"

Stefan looked at her then, alarmed, "I'm only telling you, Elena. Only you. I didn't say I was coming out at all. I just…needed you to know. You're my best friend."

"So…who is he?" Elena smirked.

Derailed, Stefan squeezed his eyes shut. He counted the floating fragments of light behind his eyelids before slipping out the words.,"Matt Donovan."

A giggling squeal burst out, "Matty? Really? Does he know? Have you told him? But oh, Stefan—Matty's not gay. He's not even slightly gay. You're dealing with some serious unrequited—"

"I know," Stefan huffed. He pulled up and away from Elena. Stefan pulled a throw pillow into his lap and clutched. "I know he's not gay. I don't want to tell him because I don't want him to be uncomfortable. It's not his fault—"

"That you find his buns as dreamy as he finds the head cheerleader's?" Elena giggled again.

"Thanks for that. You are a beacon of sensitivity and light."

"I'm sorry, Stefan. I just—I'm excited that you told anyone this, but especially me. I can't help but think that once you tell people, your brother, everyone, that you'll live a happier life. I want you to be happy. To be out in the open. To love unashamed and unhindered."

"I'm not a political statement, Elena. And just you, don't forget. I'm only telling you. I couldn't even begin to tell Damon. I don't know where to start."

"You could tell him, Stefan." Elena sighed and reached to him. She tried to erase the frown lines from Stefan's face with her fingers. "You could tell Damon."

"You don't understand what my family is like—"

"Damon is not your father!" Elena snapped then caught herself, "I know this is hard. I hate that it is hard! I think…I think you would be surprised by his reaction. I think he would be relieved that you trusted him with something so important."


	4. Plots & Thickenings, October 2009

**AN: **I do not own these characters, merely borrow.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Plots & Thickenings, October 2009**

"Fuck." Damon replied.

"Succinct as ever, former lover." Katherine sniped, "as perverse as it is, your heart belongs to the product of a hate fuck."

Damon's eyes turned to slits and he stared at Katherine, hard. The cousins looked so much alike, almost like sisters. They couldn't be more dissimilar. He watched Katherine's tongue toy with the tip of another bottle of Magic Hat, her body comfortably wedged in his favorite wingback chair. After her taunting on top of his Camaro a few days ago, Damon had shoved her to the ground and stalked into his house. Now, here she was again, in all her shortest possible skirt and see-through top glory, plotting to hurt the one person he never would.

He watched Katherine finish the beer. Her posture regal but feral—_a queen of filth._ To Damon, it seemed as though everything she touched lessened in value. He knew this applied to his heart. He turned away from her, placed his hand over his chest. Damon dropped his hand and turned back, turned to stone.

"You mistake me, Katherine." Damon said, "I mean, fuck you."

"Excuse me?" Katherine's eyes snapped open. She threw the empty bottle down with a crunch and stood, finger pointing as though hexes were real. "I don't think you understand your position, here, Damon. You owe me. You fucked a minor—me—last year. Remember?"

Damon felt his body tense at the mention of their entanglement. He remembered—he damn well remembered. Brief flashes of her body as she rode him on his Camaro, always on top (how stupid he was! How foolish!) The day she had him lock her up in handcuffs and spreader bar in what he thought was her empty bedroom. The night they caused Grayson Gilbert's accident, drunken teenagers rutting on the road like animals. He remembered her panic, her blackmailing him even then. He remembered the photos. The fucking set up of it all.

"Don't you dare use our fucked up but incredibly brief relationship against me. It's…disgusting. It's buried history."

Katherine smirked, "Not so. Not quite history. Not so buried. Or maybe you've forgotten my evidence."

Damon exploded then. He grabbed her wrists, dragging them both across the broken glass and pushed her into a wall. Katherine's eyes lit up happily, knowing she had him. This Damon was dangerous, of course. _But so terribly useful._

"You said you destroyed those, Katherine." Damon snarled, his hand itching to strangle her throat, the fear in his eyes when he thought it. He let go of her immediately. Something about her made him angry beyond reason. He wasn't like that—this.

"Photos fit for porn magazines, baby." She snapped. "I'm sure Sheriff Forbes will have a bleeding heart towards you when she looks at poor, innocent me, trussed up and fucked like a pig. You look like a monster in them, baby. A monster in heat. You were so hot then, Damon." Katherine reached out to his retreating form, snaking her fingers up his shirt, pressing her body against him. "Didn't you like it then? Didn't you like my taking of your cherry? Didn't you enjoy the way I swallow? Didn't you like my toys?"

Damon's eyes dilated with panic. Katherine still terrified him.

"We could do it again," she murmured, placing her hand in his black hair. "This time I could tie you up, you'd like that, I swear…just help me. I just need this one tiny thing. This little bit of help. I swear. We could have fun."

Damon's mind shut down under the pressure of her kiss.

* * *

Damon woke alone. Always one with an escape plan, he could not envision a way to get out of his current situation. Elena was going to find out, knowing Katherine, most cruelly. He sat up in his bed, swung his legs over the edge and reached for his customary water glass and aspirin. The headaches worsened since Katherine's theatrics that day.

He remembered how she pulled away from their lip-lock in triumph. Disgust with himself crawled out from his pores. There was no coming back from this. He had to wait six more months. Just six more months and those photos meant nothing. They were unmarked by date or time. She had been clever, but not her photographer. Pointing out that victory on her birthday would be something to relish.

In the meantime, however, he would have to both help and undermine Katherine's efforts to fuck over Elena. His life was an inconsolable shit fest. _Oh God, Elena_. He poured his face into his hands.

At least she would have Stefan.

* * *

"Rebekah!" Katherine smiled, slapping her purse down on the bench of the Grill. She looked at the wistful look in her friend's gaze and followed it to Matt, who, at present, was wiping up an adjacent table.

Rebekah looked at Katherine with a start, flushed.

"I have a plan to destroy Elena Gilbert." Katherine smirked.

Rebekah sighed, bored and disappointed that her reverie would not only be disturbed, but disturbed by the same inane plotting to which Katherine usually subjected her. Perhaps, at least, it would involve less uncomfortable camera work on her part.

"All right, what is it then, shall we swap her shampoo with peroxide? Her mouthwash with liquor again?"

"Listen, bitch," Katherine snapped, "Appreciate my brilliance a little more and drool in your sarcasm a little less. Or if you like, I can find out what Matt likes and report back to you."

Rebekah sobered. For Katherine, sex was a weapon. A game. Rebekah knew this threat was not idle, and for all she thought the world of Matt, her life-long friendship with Katherine had so far proved that men in general had no will power around her. The straight ones, at least. God, she hoped Matt was straight, or bi, the very least.

"I'm sorry. Do go on." Rebekah folded her hands.

"I heard my parents fighting. I'm not my father's daughter—"

"Oh Kat, I'm sorr—"

"I'm not finished! Neither is Elena. Seems our parents did a partner swap. I'm Grayson's daughter." Katherine's look of pride washed over her face, her hands spread as though the rest were evident.

Rebekah narrowed her eyes. She had to keep up, but she was missing something. Letting Katherine know she didn't understand would be, to Katherine, an unforgivable weakness. Understanding dawned.

"Elena doesn't know," she said.

Katherine clapped her hands together with glee, "Exactly! Think, think Beks. Think of how this will ruin her. Break her heart. Think of how much Aunt Jenna and Aunt Miranda hate my…Uncle John. Her perfect world will fall open when she finds out she was the byproduct of a angst-ridden screw instead of love."

"Have you any proof?" Rebekah said, hesitant, "you've always said, never show up to a game without your own cards."

"That's where Damon Salvatore comes in."

"I'm sorry Kat. Him, again? I don't know if that's wise."

Katherine leaned in, her eyes ferocious, "that walking hard-on will do what I tell him. He knows the consequences."

A clatter of dishes made both girls jump. Rebekah frowned as Matt fussed, embarrassed, over a pint sized girl. She watched the girl laugh, her dark arms scooping up cups and silverware. She frowned deeper at the girl—Bonnie, was it?

Katherine took mental notes of the scene, testing its possibilities for her advantage. Finding none, she commanded Rebekah's attention with a slap on the arm. Rebekah startled, but did not flinch. To flinch was to lose. To lose was to lose Katherine's precarious friendship, to become a mark. Rebekah was desperate to prevent it.

"How exactly are you garnering your proof? Am I to help?"

"Oh, Beks. You don't have to help this time. You just get to watch." Katherine grinned.

Rebekah's shoulders relaxed. _Thank goodness. That nonsense with Damon was terrifying to begin with, not to mention, a little too revealing._

"I'm going to get Damon to manipulate his brother, Stefan." At his name, Katherine paused tasting the syllables as if they could be his flesh. "Long story short, somehow I'm going to get a hair strand and do a paternity test. For me, for John, for Elena. That will be all of the proof I need."

Rebekah tilted her head. This wasn't a terribly detailed or elaborate plan, so it appeared Katherine was over-confident. Rebekah relished over-confident Katherine. It was then she didn't account for mistakes or wildcards. How was she so sure Damon could manipulate his brother at all? Wouldn't it be easier to just go visit and steal a hairbrush, or just pluck out a few hairs while passing one another down the hall?

Katherine looked at her composed friend and then spoke as if she read Rebekah's mind. "He needs to be involved, Beks. It will be so much _better_ this way."


	5. Guilt & Pleasure, September 1991

**AN: **I do not own these characters, merely borrow.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Guilt & Pleasure, September 1991**

Jenna could not stop kissing Logan Fell. In fact, if it were up to her, her main occupation would involve kissing Logan Fell. The muffled beats of wedding reception music kept tempo with their hands. A roam for each beat, a breath in between. In the quiet corner near the smoking section, Logan's rough fingers grabbed the slope of her backside, pulling up her already too-short black dress.

"Not here." Jenna's hands moved his back downward, rectifying the results of their climbing.

"Where?" Logan demanded, voice low and wanting.

"We can go back to my place. I just…" Jenna gasped as Logan bit down in the hollow of her neck. "I have to say goodbye to my sister. Logan. Logan stop."

Logan fell pulled away, scowling, "By my car then. Ten minutes."

Jenna felt the blood pool in her cheeks as she watched him walk away. _Finally, _she thought. _Finally something is going my way. _She scrambled to put her heels back on and rushed into the reception. She scanned the hall. Miranda was nowhere in sight. Miranda had left the bar where Jenna had seen her last, but she saw no one at their assigned table. Jenna made her way back to it, as if somehow a clue would present itself—or more truthfully, so she could lie and tell Miranda that she had _looked everywhere_ before leaving.

At the table the candles flickered out into puddles of wax. Miranda's purse was gone, her shoes. She looked over at the dance floor for signs of Miranda or Grayson, but saw no one. Jenna sat for a moment and debated. She remembered Miranda's incredibly pissed drunk state. Perhaps Grayson had come and brought her home. Perhaps that is why Miranda hadn't searched for her keys. Yes. That made the most sense. Jenna's brother-in-law was an incredibly responsible man. He would never want someone to drive home that trashed. Jenna smirked, knowing her sister's giggly nature under the influence. Most likely, poor Grayson had to carry her out to their car. Yes. That must be it.

Five or more minutes had passed. Logan Fell kept time like an atomic clock; she knew he would leave without her. She tucked the mislaid keys into her purse and left.

* * *

John Gilbert felt no contentment as he pulled into his drive. He let his car idle as he contemplated his situation. His desire met, but unfulfilled, left his life slightly more problematic than he would like to admit. He regretted the act and yet, he regretted not doing more. His completion was short-lived in his eagerness, in the rush. John had taken care to lay the unconscious Miranda out on her couch, but as he had he wanted to wake her, to ignite her terror and take her until he felt fulfilled. He wasn't sure how, but he needed to do it again. Consequence be damned.

John placed his forehead on the steering wheel, expelling a huff of air. Yes, things were fairly problematic. He only hoped that Grayson's return home would add some confusion to the facts. Perhaps they would even make love, obscuring any evidence. The idea made him smile. She could blame her husband for the roughness John dealt her.

John's smile fell as he eyed the over-illumination spilling from his house. Isobel wasted everything. He wouldn't be shocked if the refrigerator door was left open, the televisions left on. John clicked the locks to his vehicle and trekked up the walk. He chewed on the words to best describe his derision to her and reached for his front door as it flew open.

"John! Oh god thank god you are home!" Isobel threw her bare arms around her husband. Her sobs drowned any witticism John had prepared.

"What, what's happened now?" John sighed, frustrated. His wife's hair was wild, and he knew from the look on her face she had been pacing in wait for him. "You're supposed to be resting. Lowering that blood pressure of yours."

"Grayson's dead! Your brother's dead!" Isobel sobbed, "I'm so sorry! He's gone, John. He's gone."

John tensed under her syntax.

Yes, things were problematic indeed.

* * *

Miranda woke on fire. Her mind and body ached like they never had before. She choked and gasped as the movement of her head pierced her temple. She lifted her head slowly, as one would walk a minefield. The afternoon light swallowed the living room. Miranda leaned over the couch and retched. She heaved the liquid contents of her night, pressing a hand to her temple afterward. Even in her inexperience, she never woke up with this level of pain.

Miranda scanned her living room and sighed. She couldn't stop the internal fire long enough to think about how and where it hurt, but stood anyway, smoothing her crumpled dress, stepped over the sick and hobbled into the kitchen.

The light was louder in the kitchen, almost perverse in its need to penetrate everything. Miranda turned the tap and let the water run through her swollen fingers, drank from cupped fingers and spit out the taste of sick. She ripped a paper towel from its holder, patting her face gently before she reached into the bottom cupboard and removed the carpet cleaner.

She cleaned the carpet to spite the fire. Miranda stood and stared at the inside of her home. The fire burned on, but her brain started to clear. She tried to remember how she got home. She sincerely doubted she drove, as even know her capacity to stand felt challenged. She squinted at her purse on the floor, picked it up and moved it onto the front hall's table.

It was then she noticed the locked door.

Miranda couldn't sense why her stomach churned when she looked at it, or why the throbbing ache of her lower body became more acute. She could not understand her growing unease, or why her body hurt as much as her mind. She tried the one thing that never failed her, logic. She looked for evidence of Grayson, unable to bring herself to call his name. It wouldn't be the first time he had tucked her on the couch, unable to bring her joyfully inebriated self up the stairs. She opened the hall closet. His coat and shoes absent.

_Jenna, Jenna then. _Miranda swallowed her rising panic. _Where is my goddamn husband?_

Miranda felt her hands shake. Logic aside, something felt incredibly, inarguably wrong. _Why does everything hurt?_

Her distraught gaze caught the steady rhythm of the answering machine's red light. She had one new message.

"Miranda…this is Sheriff—Miranda, it's Elizabeth. Forbes. I really need you to give me a call at the station. There's been an accident."

Suddenly, the fire began to make sense. Grayson never made it to the wedding. _John…John drove me home._ Miranda felt her body begin to buckle.

"Shit. Grayson." There was an almost sob in Elizabeth Forbes's pause. "Grayson was in an accident. Just, just give me a call, ok? I'm here at the station. I'll be here all night—"

The voice of Sheriff Forbes followed her into the bathroom. It clung to her skin as she emptied the remnants of her stomach.


	6. Guilt & Pleasure, October 2009

**A/N: **I do not own these characters, merely borrow.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Guilt & Pleasure, October 2009**

Elena watched Stefan's features float in wistfulness as he watched the captain of the football team break their huddle. Around them, the air smelled like decaying leaves and mown grass. She stretched her legs over the lower bleachers and hummed. It was strange, looking at Matt through Stefan's eyes. She couldn't imagine looking at her oldest friend with that sort of longing.

"Stefan?" She said, unsuccessful in breaking his reverie. "_Stefan_." She pinched him.

"Ow, what?" Stefan asked, pouting as he rubbed his arm.

"What is it about Matty, really?"

Stefan sighed, "Does there have to be a deep, psychological reason, Elena?"

"Not usually." Elena said, playing with a strand of hair and tilting her head. "But I'm talking to you, so…"

"He makes my hands go numb."

"What?" Elena laughed, not understanding.

Stefan took a deep breath and said, "He's the _only_ person that consistently makes my hands go numb. From wanting."

Both parties embarrassed, they turned and continued to watch practice unfold. Minutes later, Elena jumped from her tuned-out state as Bonnie slumped down next to them, a scowl on her face.

"Screw this American dream bullshit." She hissed and picked at the underside of her front tooth.

"Bonnie Bennett, you scrooge." Elena teased.

"I thought that was for Christmas." Stefan said, his voice as idle as the ball looked, circling in the arm toward Matt's arms.

"Don't start Elena. You know I hate this 'go-team' nonsense you insist we take part."

"It's just practice, Bonnie. We're supporting Matt, right Stefan?" Elena eyed the troubled expression on Bonnie's face. "You were benched in Lacrosse again, I take it." Elena sighed sadly.

"Bastards." Bonnie replied. She bit the rough part of her thumb, calloused from play. Bonnie's glare softened when she looked over at Elena's face. "Jaime saw why this time."

Elena chewed her lip sympathetically. Jaime, Bonnie's girlfriend of two years, hated her friend's poor temper. Elena remembered watching Bonnie play for the first time and said, "Watching you play the first time gave me nightmares for a week."

Bonnie laughed and gave Elena a hard slap on the shoulder. "Weakling." She said.

Elena smiled and asked, "How mad is she?"

"Extremely. I'm cut off." Bonnie frowned. "Elena—"

"No, Bonnie. I won't talk her out of it again. She has every right to be mad at you. I am a little too. You promised us both you'd try harder, remember?"

"Elena, damn it!" Bonnie kicked the bleacher snapping, "I grew up with my father, ok? What the hell do you want from me?"

Elena took a deep breath. Bonnie Bennett's father was no joke. He had an addiction to cigarettes, cheap beer, and degrading his only child. Elena remembered her eighth sleep-over birthday party, the burn marks up Bonnie's arm, the carefully plotted excuses. She wondered sadly what it was about Mystic Falls that made so many families dysfunctional.

After a few minutes, she shrugged her shoulders and whispered, "Composure, Bonnie. A smidge of composure. Was it on the field again?"

"Locker room." Bonnie growled, "Rebekah Mikaelson called me a dyke, so I took a swing and hit that Fell girl instead."

"Samantha? Is she ok?"

"You're supposed to be on _my_ side, Elena."

"Bonnie, I am. I'll always be on your side. Always."

Bonnie took Elena's outstretched hand and linked pinkies. The girls laughed and squinted under the sun.

"Are you going to meet up with us at the Grill?" Elena asked.

"Is your annoying cousin going to be there?" Bonnie folded her arms expectantly.

"Jer isn't annoying. He just digs you."

"Which is annoying."

"Well," Elena hesitated, "he doesn't know he shouldn't."

"Who the hell says 'smidge' anyway?" Bonnie snapped, changing the subject. She watched the figures on the field scramble through another play before yelling out to them, "Change into your big boy pants, Tyler Lockwood! My blind dog can find his dick faster than you can run!"

At her words, Tyler and Matt smacked into one another and fell in a crumpled mess.

Stefan looked up from the fray and at Bonnie, frowning, "I didn't know you had a dog."

* * *

John stalked Miranda as she walked down each aisle of the supermarket. He watched the slight sway of her hips, the round hill of them sloped and snug underneath a red (god help him) pencil skirt. Her modest kitten heels clicked in offbeat patterns, lightly infused with unsure shuffles.

John watched Miranda shift the basket and re-position her purse straps in the fruit section. He stared at the crisp ridges of her shirt. He imagined unbuttoning it, regretting his haste all those years ago, his missed chance to see the skin underneath. He watched her lightly test avocadoes and smell the skin of apples. Keeping his distance, when she moved from the apples he picked up her discards to fill his own weighty bundle.

John wasn't there to watch or follow Miranda. He wasn't. His absentee shrew of a wife left him to the distasteful task of groceries and taking care of their daughter. But on such an occasion as this, on such a time when their paths could collide when Miranda otherwise was so adept at avoiding him—he couldn't resist. So John watched Miranda all the way to the cereal aisle.

John watched her frown deepen as she read the ingredients of each cereal box, as though it could unravel mysteries. He watched her as she removed and replaced one box after another. When a box fell to the floor with a disjointed thud, he watched the swell of her ass strain the seaming of her skirt slightly, and it gave him _such_ memories.

Without thinking twice, with all the confidence of a man never made to pay for his actions, John made his way over to her bent form. Really, it was his favorite way for her to be.

"Hello, Mandy."

Miranda's spine straightened like an iron rail when he said her name. John's unkind smile reached his eyes. He watched her eyes dart back and forth and between them, calculating their closeness, calculating an escape.

"…John." She said taking a step back. Miranda clutched the box of CoaCoa Puffs she'd previously dropped like a lifeline.

"It's so good to see you. We've barely spoken now the girls spend less time together." As John reached out to claim the chocolate cereal, Miranda's fingers unlatched its cardboard frame. Her grip had crushed it slightly and John could not resist. "I wonder if they'll give me a discount with the box in this state?" He shook the boxes contents for effect. He watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest, mourning again his lost chances.

"Unless…you want it?" He tilted his head and offered her back the box. For the first time in almost eighteen years, he felt alive. The aisle was clear. If she reached out, he could grab her arm, her wrist, he could bite her skin and make her cry for denying him. He leaned in, cleaving the distance, whispered, "Do you want it, Mandy?"

Miranda dropped her basket and fled.

* * *

Katherine walked into her mother and father-uncle's bedroom. It had been a week since she overheard the secret, almost a week since Isobel had left. Since then, she'd been busy. Since then she'd ordered two paternity test kits to confirm the information.

Katherine walked up to her mother's side of the bed and sat, pulling the drawer of the table open. The drawer was empty, save a few strands of hair, which were useless. Katherine didn't need to find out if she was her mother's daughter, but she wondered idly where the woman went.

It hadn't surprised Katherine much, Isobel's departure. It wasn't the first time, typically lasting about two to three weeks. Katherine's childhood was filled with her parents' bitter arguments (always, always about Aunt Miranda and Elena.) Still, she would be less surprised at Isobel's inevitable return. Isobel always returned. Katherine smoothed the dust that had gathered on the beech wood table and look up at the long, almost gossamer curtains. She stood and walked to the window, fingering the sheer fabric.

She looked out into their desolate backyard, its old maple looked stormy and bored, casting a dark shadow on the grass. Old rust stains from a broken swing set still browned the grass in faint parallel lines. The grass itself had not been cut in days, blades lazy and burdened with fallen leaves.

Katherine dropped the curtain, and marched into the master bathroom.

The pale blue bathroom was uglier than Katherine remembered. She pulled out the small plastic bag from her jean pocket and searched for John Gilbert's brush on the vanity. She picked out about twenty or more hairs, follicles intact, breathing thanks that her father never cleaned out his brush.

After sealing the bag with its precious contents inside and folding it back into her pocket, she continued snooping around the bathroom. Pulling back the shower curtain revealed only her father's soap and shampoo, any sign of her mother absent. Perversion took her as she opened every drawer that was her mother's—they too, were empty.

A strangled panic formed above her heart, and she ran to her mother's closet. Empty. Empty of any _sign_ of her mother's previous existence. All pretense that her mother would come back, even for her, dissolved.

"Okay," Katherine licked her lips. "Okay."


End file.
